


It Had To Be You

by lokis_advocate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Billie Holiday happens, Fluff, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:19:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6542713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokis_advocate/pseuds/lokis_advocate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music is just as good a remedy as the best medicine. Often times, it's what a tired agent needs most after a long day of risking his life. If he's got a dance partner, then all the better...</p><p>Best read with a glass of Bourdeaux Cabernet Sauvignon and this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIgVCU19pjg</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Had To Be You

“Are you sure you can make it up those stairs?”

“Napoleon, I’m fine. You can let me walk.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to damage those ribs any more.”

“You’ll damage them from holding me so tight! Let go!”

Napoleon Solo reluctantly let go his supportive hold on his surly partner. Illya Kuryakin staggered over to the front door of his building, nursing two broken ribs and some bruising on his abdomen. Not very impressive, considering the repertoire of injuries the two of them had sustained in the past. Napoleon himself had a laceration on his thigh and a recently-repaired dislocated shoulder. They had been lucky to make it out of the mission with just these injuries.

“Well, how about you let me walk you up anyway?” The American urged, seeing the fatigued look on his partner’s face. “After all, they did tell me to get you home safely. It wouldn’t do to have you tumble down five flights of stairs, now would it?”

Illya, in the middle of fumbling with his keys, gave his partner an exasperated look. It was apparent that Napoleon wasn’t in the mood to give up, so he sighed and caved in. Napoleon took Illya’s outstretched arm with more gusto than was altogether necessary.

“You needn’t coddle me, you know,” Illya chided, letting himself be hauled up the stairs.

“Oh, I know,” replied Napoleon, “but I’d like to anyhow.”

The two of them made quite a pair, hobbling up the stairs to Illya’s inner-city flat. Napoleon and his limp complimented Illya’s slouching posture quite well. Any neighbors that might’ve seen them would have had half a mind to call an ambulance.

Once the door to the third-floor apartment was open, the alarms set, and the door locked behind them, the two men collapsed onto Illya’s couch like two tired sacks of flour. They’d each been given three days medical leave to heal up in time for another mission. This usually meant as many dates as he could cram into three days for Napoleon, and catching up on scientific journals for Illya. But tonight, the only thing on the agents’ minds was rest.

“Do you want a drink?” Illya asked automatically. He was planning on getting one himself; he might as well get one for his friend while he was up.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to mix these painkillers with alcohol,” Napoleon answered with a smirk. “Uh, scotch for me.”

Grunting with the difficulty of leaving the couch, Illya slumped over to the kitchen and poured the scotch and a double vodka in mismatched glasses. Napoleon watched his partner with detached interest until his eyes landed on a box of records near the coffee table.

“Organizing your record collection?” He asked, limping over to the cardboard box and kneeling in front of it with no small amount of effort. 

“Yes, I’m getting rid of a few of them.” Illya grabbed the drinks and joined Napoleon on the carpet. “I’m afraid I don’t listen to these anymore, and I don’t have the space to keep them.”

With fingers trained to kill, Napoleon flipped delicately through the box, peeking at the names. There were some broken or warped records amongst the collection, along with a number of obscure titles he didn’t recognize. He pulled out one soundtrack in amusement.

“Tchaikovsky? Won’t you get your citizenship revoked for that?”

“It was given to me by a Section III agent as an office-warming present,” Illya explained, taking the disc away from his friend. “I was never one for ballet, I’m afraid.”

The American laughed and continued rifling through the Russian’s box of reject music. Illya, who was pressed up against Napoleon’s back for support, was watching him over his shoulder and sipping occasionally at his drink. At this distance, he felt Napoleon’s gasp of shock at seeing a few records at the back of the box.

“Kitty Kallen? Peggy Lee? Illya, you can’t just get rid of these, they’re practically classics,” he bemoaned, pulling out the records and setting them aside. 

“I don’t have the space,” Illya reiterated, shifting the cases to peer at the lovely ladies on the covers. He had to admit, it had been a hard decision, but it was between them and his Chet Baker collection. He jumped at Napoleon’s next scandalized jolt.

“Billie Holiday? Illya...” the brunette tutted, gingerly removing a record. “One doesn’t get rid of Lady Day, just like that.”

“I’m sure there’s no rule against it.”

“Well, there ought to be.” Napoleon struggled off the floor, dismounting Illya in the process, and made his way to the record player. “C’mon, we need to see just how wrong you are.”

Turning the machine on and setting the needle down with all the tenderness of diffusing a bomb, Napoleon allowed the room to be filled with the calming, big-band serenade of Billie. It was like warm coffee on a spring day, like lace in his ears.

Illya was smiling at the sight of Napoleon so enamoured with the music-- that is, until his friend offered him his hand.

“Oh, no,” he protested, removing himself from the carpet. “Napoleon, I’m far too tired to dance.” As tempting as the offer was, it was nearly midnight and the pain medication was wearing off.

“Then we won’t dance,” replied Napoleon, “we’ll sway.”

“I don’t  _ sway. _ ”

“Well, there’s a first for everything.”

Without waiting for hesitation, Napoleon grabbed Illya by the waist and pulled him into a close embrace. Almost without meaning to, Illya melted into a following position, placing his hand in his partner’s and connecting at the chest. Both their drinks say forgotten on the floor.

Illya had intended to continue his protest, but Napoleon had already started moving to the rhythm with his limited range of motion. A step back, a firm hand on the other man’s lower back, and soon, the Russian was like putty in his hands. 

Much to Illya’s chagrin, the two began to sway and rock. Their feet didn’t move much, and they didn’t need to; most of the dancing was done with the chest and shoulders. Napoleon’s ability to maintain a solid connection was intoxicating. Illya leaned into the embrace, laying his fevered head against Napoleon’s neck.

In that short moment, there weren’t any injuries, no pile of records on the floor, not even any U.N.C.L.E.; there was just the two of them, and the sonorous tones of Miss Holiday.

Illya didn’t know why he even considered getting rid of that record.


End file.
